by Dominic Acito (@mycamgrlromance)
We are at the mercy of nature throughout Delia Meshlir’s album Calling the Unknown. The lyrics conjure images of rivers, forests and land overtaken by wildlife. The album cover itself poses Meshlir under a blue sky and taking in the scent of a freshly picked bouquet of flowers. The natural world figures into much of Meshlir’s work. Her first EP, Almost Spring, was released in 2020 and while topically was very similar, has more an Americana style.
Calling the Unknown is an album with layered synths and soundscapes accompanied by guitars with just the right amount of grit, making it difficult not to be reminded of the music of Emma Ruth Rundle. Where Rundle focuses on the dispassionate destructive might of nature, Meshlir finds a sense of comfort and optimism in uncaring elements. Where Rundle paints devastating portraits in greyscale, Meshlir creates landscapes in watercolor. According to Meshlir, this is a set of songs written in the wake of her grandmother’s passing. However, Calling the Unknown is not an album full of laments but more melancholy meditations on the vastness of our world and the mysterious nature of life. That unknown wilderness is not only mentioned by name in the lyrics but conjured in the vocals with an airiness to them that makes them seem as though they drift in on the wind. According to Meshlir, she tried to keep vocal takes to a minimum, restricting herself to three takes per song, giving them a very easy and natural feel.
Her vocals find a perfect balance with the saxophone that adds to the feeling of drifting under an open sky. While the songs are meditative, that doesn’t mean they are lacking in energy. Tracks like “The Better Half,” “Out of Desire,” and “Cry Me Something” begin slowly and then kick into momentum with saxophone and guitar texturing that take on a mesmerizing shape.
Calling the Unknown closes with two prominent piano tracks. “Horseland” begins with piano backed up by what sounds like a light summer storm as birds chirp in the distance. The last song on the record opens with a musical nod to Erik Satie’s “Gymnopedie,” employing the same chords and timing, invoking the same atmosphere that Satie had intended those two-hundred some odd years ago and leaves us with the sound someone wading into the water.